- Montague Whitsel
The silence of Winter has come_and everywhere my mystic’s palletis coloured in Plum Delight,tinctured of a Mulberry-Sugared Sight.The White Sun of Winter has comeinfusing silence into life’s eaves.And so I walk amongst naked trees,my thoughts adorned_of Cranberried prophecies. 1
The leaves no longer rustle on the bough,but, morbid, process across the sod_lichens and mosses and fungal bedsreceiving them as if visitantsfrom sylvan heavens.Oak leaves breathe their last and fall_surrendering earthward in rust brown gleam,knowing in their spent dead cells –that the Merry-Go-Rounds of Summerare gone. 2
The White Sun of Winter has cometo grace us with its silent hum_striating the skies above with beamslike icicle flares in a dream’s speculum.Patterning the woodland floor so solemn,white light pierces tangled copses,tickling the misguided cares of mortals;chilling our hidden fears_rendering them out as dis-spelled sums. 3The Silence of Winter has now comeand everywhere my mystic’s palletis coloured in Hollyberry light;tinctured of an Ivy-oracled delight.Leaves no more rustleupon denuded trees;
the ranns of time pass by in threes_whilst I sing my mustering runeto the beat of an earthening tune! 4Winter’s rhythmed silences are here,rustling upon the open back porcheswhere Mabon keeps his rabbits_ingratiating meaning into life’s sullen eaves.He walks through a vale of imaginings,his brow lighted by the Pale, Cold Sun_as he sings to his rabbits in tunesall captured of Brown-Sugared prophecies!I sing along_ 5Yet leaves no more rustle upon the boughbut, as if mortality’s scion,process across the hardened sod_lichens and mosses and fungal bedsreceiving themlike visitants from some old god’s city.Oak leaves breathe their last and fall_surrendering earthward in a rusted gleam_knowing, in their spent, dead cells—that the Merry-Go-Rounds of Summer_are gone. 6The White Winter Sun has comewith Butterscotch Rum intimations_having stirred our Frankincense hopes,applying Myrrhto balm our ice-fascinated souls.
Ever-shining in the frosted heavens,its light seeking out the waylaidand soul-burdened_the White Winter Sun proffers goldproleptically_Hope hidden within its prolepsis_ of a New Life to come! 7
Leaves no more rustle upon grey boughs,but – like a brown-red carpet
for the coming of the Spring Queen –rune-out patterns with moss and lichensand the fungal flowers that sleepbeneath their weathering blanket
all foretelling the coming of New Sunand the myriad dreams and imaginingsthat will flurry forth with it_ suggesting thatnew Merry-go-Rounds of Summer
will one day come. 8Joyfull, Joyfull_ the New Sun comes,glistening our souls and the sídhewith the radiance of Mistletoed hopes!Gladdening through the slanted blindsof ever more freighted lives –
New Sun comes with Sugared Plumsto put a quick bustle in our steps
and green our sodden hearts;lifting our eyes towards New Thresholdsas yet dusted with gleaming, icy snow. 9Hear the ancient invocation:“Wait ye now upon New Sun’s Rising.”So mote it be.Finis.